Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Jamie is a jaded rocker watching his life fade before his eyes. Celeste is a child running from a life she doesn't want. Somewhere in the middle, they collide.
"I want to go home." The voice may have been young, but there was nothing childish about it. The girl looked up through an unruly tangle of coppery curls at the forbidding woman, who stared right back. She was dark: hair, eyes, soul. The child's dark blue eyes weighed her, measured her and found her wanting. The child's face turned towards the wall.
"This is your home now. You might as well get the tears over with, Jane."
"My name is Mary Celeste St. Patrick."
"Not anymore, Jane." The door closed behind the woman with a sharp, final click, leaving the child sitting on the narrow bed, staring at the muted grey walls. The battered cardboard box clutched to her chest trembled with every breath she took. Carefully, she untied the frayed string holding the lid onto the base and set it aside. Tiny treasures, useless junk. A faded pink rose, pilfered from someones garden, a handful of brightly colored glass marbles. The well-worn New Testament in the cheap leatherette binding, a child's thin book of prayers. Her fingers traced over the neatly printed letters of her name on the flyleaf. Mary Celeste St. Patrick, on her christening.
This was her whole world. The church and a child's view of the world around her, wide and sparkling with beauty. She didn't understand all of the whys and hows of where she was now, all she knew was that her world had changed. She replaced the lid and tied the string tightly, knotting it with a child's feverish, clumsy intensity.
Someplace safe. Someplace that they'll never find it. She closed her eyes and made a wish, a prayer against the coming dark. Something inside her broke loose, something that burned and choked, and her little fingers closed on empty air. Her eyes opened, wide and clear, brimming with tears of gratitude.
"Hail Mary, full of grace..." She whispered the words as the darkness opened wide, grinning jaws and swallowed her down.
A child's sense of time is fluid. Days melt into months, into years, without an impression on the soul. The body grew and changed, the mind unfolded in frightening, fractured facets of terrible beauty. A child's games became complex puzzles, puzzles into responsibilities, responsibility into tedium. All things have their limit, even the most exotic and unpredictable of rare flowers.
"Nothing touches her," the dark woman said, watching teacups twirl through a complicated dance in midair, even as the girl-- almost on the brink of adolescence, now-- bent studiously over a notebook, pencil moving easily across the page. "Nothing we say, or do, makes the slightest bit of difference to her. She completes her tasks because she wants to be left alone. She doesn't cry, she doesn't laugh, she doesn't smile. It's like she's empty, waiting for something to come and fill her up."
"Is she progressing?" The man next to her, dapper in stripes and gold braid, watched their prodigy with dispassionate eyes, the way he would inspect a tank prototype.
"Yes, in some areas. Her psychokinetic control over physical objects is impressive, regardless of the weight, but as to the other areas of interest... well, we'll see."
"I certainly hope so," he replied, and turned on his heel. She stood watching through the mirrored glass for a long while. The teacups never faltered.
The girl's mind was a deep pool, still and reflecting. Underneath that blank surface everything she was moved, shifting in quick, silver flashes and slow black rolls. The daily demands, ever more taxing, ever more impossible, were mere ripples across the hidden depths of her personality. She moved a kitten from one room to another, brought it back to her hands. She fell asleep with the confused bundle of warm, frizzy feline in her lap, her fingers gently coaxing the fear away from the flattened ears. It was the first cat she had seen in ten years. When she searched for it, after she woke up from the coma-like sleep that lasted for four hours, she found the dissected corpse in the lab, still warm.
She didn't cry. There was no room for tears left in her. She sent the next kitten away, and refused to bring it back. The puppies followed, and the mice. She ignored the promise of being allowed to keep them, allowed to have a pet of her own. She prayed for them all, silently, as she stared up at the ceiling, or at the grey walls that never changed.
My name is Mary Celeste St. Patrick. And I do not cry.
"I think we need to accept that she's progressed as far as she can, Lennox." The uniformed man watched the girl reflected on the monitor. She was sitting on the narrow bunk, arms wrapped around her knees as she stared into space. "Jane 13 just isn't going to make the grade."
"I disagree, sir. She has such enormous potential, if we could just find something to reach her through, encourage her to work with us." The woman was older, stockier, gray threaded through her dark hair.
"We're not in the business of therapy, Lennox. If she were a telepath, or even a stronger pyrokinetic, we could find a place for her, but she's not made any progress in months. How they hell can we use an operative who passes out every time she teleports from one room to another?'" The man turned decisively away from the viewing screen. He was starting to round at the shoulders, and his hair had gone a stately silver. "She's nothing but a liability to us now. I want her decommissioned."
"Sir, we're only just starting to learn how to chart the genetic features that create this kind of talent-"
"Then give her to the scientists. On a slab, Lennox. Bodies are less expensive to maintain than people."
Time, although a thief, is also an excellent teacher. Jane 13, (Mary Celeste, her inner voice whispered sharply) at a tender age, has learned how to hide in her own mind. The people around her where shadows, dirty minds brushing against hers, leaving stains as stubborn as soot or blood. She listens to them, learns what they have to offer, and sometimes she dreams of people she's never seen, doing things she's never done. Some of their minds are bitter to the touch, full of horrible things. Sometimes, those horrible things have to do with her.
The woman, Lennox, is the worst. Her mind was all sharp edges and angles. She was certain of her own power over the girl, waving away the guards who would have followed them down the long hallway that leads toward the lab. Her thoughts are focused on the practical, the disassembly of the unusable whole into productive parts. Perhaps, if she had known beforehand that her Jane could sift through her thoughts at will, she wouldn't have been so confident.
The girl falls back so gradually that Lennox never notices, and by the time she does there's just a tiny ripple of displaced air and a hiss, and her pet project is gone like mist. Like she never existed. She swears, loudly and creatively, until the shrieking whine of the lock-down warnings start.
The girl couldn't have gone far, and she won't be in any condition to fight being brought back. The delay, however, will set her schedule back. She's going to be late for her dinner meeting.